Joker's Gotham
by theblondeknight45
Summary: A one-shot about Joker's first act in his long comedy show across Gotham. A quick look inside the mind of Gotham's ultimate criminal. It's a crazy Gotham, a violent Gotham, a corrupt Gotham, and of course, it is and always will be, Joker's Gotham. Not enough cursing and gore to make it an M-Rating fic, but this is a Joker story, so don't expect any punches to be pulled.


**A nice one-shot story that's been sitting in my google docs for quite a while; with AP tests so close, I needed to do a quick project to relieve my stress and give me a little break. It chronicles the Joker's first few acts just before Batman arrives in Gotham, because there's no such thing as too much Joker. I hope you enjoy. I appreciate reviews.**

 **I don't own Batman or any associated characters...(yet)...**

* * *

Gotham was not a nice city. It never was, and it never will be, but when _he_ showed up...no one could predict where Gotham was going. And that was just how he wanted it. He sprung up like a phantom, come to haunt the purgatory that this city is, and he would disappear just as easily, fading into the night, not to be seen for many nights afterwards. It went on like that for a long time, at least it felt like a long time.

People in this town are either victims or criminals. There are no middlemen. If you're not a criminal of some kind, you're a victim. It doesn't matter if you're a cop or an accountant or a student, you're a victim. Victims and criminals alike are killed more often than most like to think of, but when _The Joker_ showed his dead-white mug in this city, deaths skyrocketed, criminals and victims alike were being murdered left and right; anyone who could stand in his way wouldn't, not after he proved that he was Gotham's god.

Gotham has always needed a Savior, but we weren't careful about how we asked for one. The Joker? Yeah...he was a savior all right. He saved everyone from the pain of life in Gotham City...by trying to kill us all, every man, woman, and child. In the end...maybe he succeeded.

…

The moon was not illuminating in Gotham. It's beams shone down on the buildings, grim and old, but they did not illuminate the sad architecture or the dark alleys behind them. It seemed that someone, at some point in time, painted the moon into the sky. Almost like someone felt the need to make Gotham a big decoration and hang it with the stars.

Whomever this person was, whatever it was that he did before or after, his art lived on and the moon continues to shine down light on the city night after night. Some might call it beautiful, but most people would call those people optimists, or fools. There is nothing beautiful in or around Gotham City.

Gotham is a city of hatred and little else. Anyone with some semblance of intelligence knows that's why the moon doesn't illuminate Gotham, it just mocks it. It laughs, cruelly, down at the city of neverending damnation. And yet, for all its mocking and jeering, the moon cannot be touched by Gotham. Gotham is fated for the hatred it produces, consuming it with equal glee and giddy fun, all the while the moon watches from above. The same fun for vastly different reasons.

Naturally then, as anyone with great intelligence could figure out, the only way to make the moon stop laughing, to end the cycle of cruel fun and bitter glee, would be to take Gotham away. After all, that solves two problems with one fell swoop. If Gotham goes away, then how can it manufacture or consume hatred? And if it cannot do that, then what does the moon have to mock in the first place?

A tear fell on his hand and shook him from his thoughts, and the first thing he did was check his alarm clock. It was only 11:24 pm. He still had over half an hour to wait. Waiting was the hardest part. Containing the bubbling fun that was desperate to escape and make its vengeance known. All in good time. All in good time, and Gotham would be rid of a little less hatred. Step by step, night by night, Gotham would vanish.

The Joker moved his gaze from the alarm clock with burning red numbers flashing out, to the trigger laying beside it. Those were the only things on the small table beside his leather chair, which he stationed in front of the window to get the perfect view for the fireworks show. After all, he wasn't about to miss the splendor and magnificence of his own handy work.

His apartment room, technically the apartment belonging to the rapist he murdered earlier, was completely dark. The only source of light at all came from the slick and wet city streets below him. Every now and again a car or two would pass by. Even rarer was seeing a person, cloaked in the darkness of Gotham's abyss, treading down the streets. Gotham almost seemed like an innocent place on nights like tonight. Almost.

When gangs weren't moving in on each other or a massive heist wasn't going down or some other anarchic event, the city seemed to be a ghost town. The stain of a petri dish filled to the brim with disease and harm, now washed away and containing only the vaguest traces of past sins.

But then nights like tonight were so very rare. It only pointed towards the obvious, then. That Gotham was a petri dish that needed immediate cleansing. A sterilizing process to sear away all the evil, cauterize the mistakes.

11:27 pm. Time moves so slow when you needed a good laugh.

He reached out to the trigger and caressed it within his hand. Sensually feeling every defined inch of the device. He loved it. He loved it dearly. What else was there to love in Gotham? No, the only true option for Gotham was pain. Pain and violence and loss. Only through these, and then absolute destruction, could Gotham be saved from the cruelty of life. And then? Then Gotham could be loved, and not a moment before.

He wondered if the same was true of places like Metropolis. And what of Keystone? Central City? Fawcett City? He couldn't be sure, Gotham was his girl and he was anything but unfaithful. He had more than a few vices, but promiscuity wasn't one of them. Gotham was his love. And yet, Gotham needed purging. Gotham needed death to be saved.

11:29 pm. Damn.

A police siren wailed in the distance and streaks of red and blue light intruded upon his view of the city. Someone was in trouble. Someone was getting caught for making hate. Ironically enough, the punishment of making hate was more hate. The more he thought of it, though, the less ironic it seemed. Gotham was so very sick. So very, very sick. He was the key to the cure.

He watched the car go by, hurrying off to find someone for doing something illegal. Legality, justice, virtue. Ideas and notions for a land of fantasy. They didn't belong in Gotham. A dream of deception was worse than a reality of sorrow. It wasn't just "worse", it was a sin. It was sacrilege. Blasphemy. Deserving of a roaring hellfire. _That_ was justice.

That was all part of the fun, though, to him. Gotham's "protectors" were part of the problem. They were just as guilty and lost, just as in need. Like a child afraid of the doctor's, the GCPD were afraid to admit it. They never would. Still, it was his duty, neigh, his privilege to help them. Through the barrel of a gun, the stained blade of a knife, or the cinders and ashes of a bomb, he would save them all.

Speaking of cinders and ashes….oh...only 11:35 pm.

…

"Daddy, please! No!"

The drunk man ignored the cries of his little girl. She was perhaps 8 years old. She was far too young to see anything he was, but there was no stopping what Gotham bred.

"Tom, don't do this!" the drunk's wife pleaded. She was bleeding, lying on the ground and looking desperately into the dull eyes of the man she loved. Or rather, whatever demon had replaced him.

The drunk man, Tom, staggered away from his family and headed towards the door. The knife in his hand was close to slipping out, but he didn't seem to notice. He swung his free hand at the doorknob trying in vain to grasp it three times before succeeding the fourth time.

"Tom!" The man's wife cried out one more time, "Tom we don't deserve this! We need you here, we need you to be with us tonight!"

"I'm gonna blow his….b-brains out!" Tom yelled and staggered into the halls of his apartment building.

"Daddy-"

The last thing the family heard was the little girl grasping out to her father. Then their home was transformed by The Joker's bomb, changed into a sacrificial altar on which Gotham would lose some of its hatred.

The brief silence that accompanied the detonation and the fallout of flames and sparks that triggered sirens and cries of woe a moment later was bittersweet. It was an echo of love, but a taunt of failure too. He had so very far to go yet. Still, bittersweet was sweet...with a bit of bitter.

A cackling laughter echoed through the streets as the few bystanders, mostly hobos and bums, fled, none of them looking towards the man in the purple suit, walking towards the burning mess with a smile on his face.

He licked his lips and perused the site, listening for any cries of pain to savor. None came, to his displeasure. The Joker cut his losses and walked up to the front door, raging in flames and threatening to consume everything around it. He took out a single joker playing card and laid it down before the doorstep.

"Thomas Nash, your debt is paid...in spades."

Chuckling, he walked away jovially.

…

"And the GCPD still have virtually no leads on the mysterious bombing of the Boyle Apartment Buildings," The Gotham News Anchor reported, "Ferris Boyle states that he has no idea who could be targeting him, if that is the case, though it seems unlikely duo to the circumstances. The one and only lead is a single playing card that was found in front of the burning building. The explosives used were extremely high grade and are hard to come by, authorities report. The motive behind this attack continues to remain unknown, but the death toll peaked at 54 individuals ranging from 3 to 61 years old. One notable victim included Andrew Bullock, the cop who arrested Victor Zsasz some months ago and was still recovering from the severe injuries sustained."

Her partner, a male Anchor spoke up as a new image flashed onto the screen, "And in regards to the other high profile criminal scene this week, Gotham City District Attorney Harvey Dent has promised that criminal Tony Zucco will face 45 years to life in Blackgate Penitentiary for his actions against Haly's Circus and the deaths of John and Mary Grayson of the "Flying Graysons" Act. According to District Attorney Dent, Zucco and his gang fled from Chicago where they were wanted for around 4 weeks, a factor that will most certainly play into their trial, scheduled for two months from now at the Solomon Wayne Courthouse."

The TV was abruptly shut off before the woman could speak again.

Harvey Dent himself walked back into his office chair and spun around into his desk. He sighed deeply as stared into the playing card mentioned on the news, which sat alone on top of a manilla folder.

For every criminal he put away, there seemed to be a new one in his place, more dangerous and cunning all the time. The fact that the "Boyle Building Bomber", as the criminal had been named around his office, managed to plant the bombs, blow up the building, and leave a calling card without anyone having a clue about it was extraordinary.

Last week, Tony Zucco was the most wanted man in Gotham. A few days later and now the most wanted man in Gotham was faceless, unknown to everyone except the perpetrator himself. The Bomber was flashy too, leaving behind a clue, a piece of cheese to lead the GCPD on. Every day was just daring him to get out of his bed, and he was foolish enough to do so.

He looked into the ogling eyes of the clown on the card, eyes that showed primal drive, a madness that could not be comprehended by anyone sane. The unnaturally long, forked tongue on the card dripped with a sick venom that gave him a headache. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of aspirin, one that sat among many other bottles in the drawer.

Dent popped the cap off and shook the container, gazing inside. Only two pills left. He swallowed them dry and easily, leaning back into his chair and dropped the container to rub his temples. A whistling noise seemed to erupt from nowhere, but in a moment it went away. It scared him when that happened, but it didn't happen very often. Not anymore.

He groaned and slammed his hand down onto the card, dragging it to the edge of the desk so he could pick it up and examine it up close.

It wasn't so unusual. Creepy and eerie, sure, but it was just a playing card. What was supposed to mean? What was the value of the card itself? Did it mean anything at all in the first place? He was in no mood to think critically. He'd spent most of the day in court, prosecuting Waylon Jones and Victor Zsasz, and that process dragged on and on without end. He should've gone home like Janice told him.

He threw the card back onto his desk, wildly and uncaringly leaving it to fate as it flopped on its side several times before landing crookedly upside down, the odd smile turned into an unsettling frown. He didn't notice or care. He just leaned back again and closed his eyes.

…

Rain poured down in Gotham. Cars left tails of water and mist behind them as they drove around the city. There were many cars driving around the city that night.

Two gangs had engaged each other near the Solomon Wayne Courthouse and casualties were already heavy. Police officers sent to quell the violence were ending up in the hospital or their graves. The last report the GCPD Station received noted that the trials of Waylon Jones and Victor Zsasz were the object of the attacks.

Hatred was being produced en masse. He gladly set aside his work for the night to visit the riot and take matters into his own hands.

…

"Ah damn, I'm getting soaked!" One of two trenchcoat wearing men complained.

"What? That's all it takes to make you whine? Some water got splashed on you?" His partner replied.

"Just get in!" The first man snapped as he unlocked his car and hurried himself into the driver's seat. A couple seconds later his partner opened the passenger door and climbed in as well.

"So, where are we supposed to be going again?" The passenger asked as he buckled in.

"Somewhere down past Park Row. Some small time club I've never even heard of."

"And you have the stuff...right?"

"Yeah, don't start!"

"Hey, last time showed up for a deal and didn't have the goods...we almost got our asses put on Whale's wall."

"I know! Okay, just shut up and focus on tonight, huh?"

Suddenly, their hearts skipped a beat.

"Good idea!" The Joker remarked with a smile as he opened the driver's door, a knife in his hand, "I'll drive!"

"What the hell?!"

He stuck the knife into the driver's neck and climbed into the car with the two men.

A minute later, two bodies were dumped into the road, bleeding out profusely. Their car drove off quietly into the night as police sirens rang in the distance and the rain pelted the corpses.

…

Profanities and curses were spat out constantly as the two gangs fought. Most men had pipes or knives or wooden clubs of some kind with which to do battle. A few had guns, but they were usually targeted first and had to act quickly to keep their guns. The unlucky ones had to rely on their fists.

Cops with batons, pepper spray, SWAT shields, and pistols marched in on the gangs, but they were only half the number of thugs; upon seeing the police come towards them, many gang members put aside their grievances to combat the law. As much as they detested each other, they outright despised anyone wearing a badge.

"This is Officer Montoya to Commissioner Gordon," A distressed officer shouted into the radio, "we are taking casualties and are requesting backup!"

An irritated man barked back with the static, "I sent them out already, but radioing me every three minutes won't get them there any faster!"

"It's hell out here Commissioner!"

"Hang in there a little longer!"

Montoya stumbled back when a stray bullet ripped right through the radio in her hand. She ran back behind her squad car and leaned against the passenger door for cover, shooting every few seconds at the sea of criminals.

"What's the update?" Harvey Bullock, her partner, asked as he came up beside her, shooting with her at the crowd.

"Couldn't get an ETA...boss says to hold on a bit longer! Damn!"

"In any city except this one the scumbags would be runnin' scared," Bullock remorsed, "in every damn city except this one!"

"Get down!" Montoya shouted as another stray bullet came their way.

"What's that?" Bullock asked as a red car with the headlights shining through the rain came barreling through the road towards the battle.

Some of the gangsters noticed the car as well and scattered about the area, but a good many of them remained engaged in battle with the cops, or each other. The menacing roar of the engine thundered through the road and the car tore down the metal fence around the perimeter of the Courthouse. It ran over and trampled several men before going in reverse and stopping a fair distance from the crowd, which had fully taken note of the car now.

No one was sure how to react, but before anyone else could the driver slammed on the gas pedal again and mowed down a few more unlucky men who weren't able to get away in time. The car smashed through the other fence and drove down a ways before crashing into an alley nearby. Several police officers went after the car on foot. The crowd of criminals resumed their fight as tear gas grenades flooded the area. Sirens in the distance foretold the end of battle.

The alley was dark when the cops ran into it. A couple of them had flashlights with them, and pointed them into the maws of darkness as the rain continued to pour down.

"Keep calm," one the officers, presumably a veteran, told his comrades, "find the bogey and let the rest of us know."

They crept through the alley slowly, gazing into windows and poking around the heaps of trash littered throughout.

"There's the car!" A cop reported, shining his light on the trunk and standing ready, his gun pointed steadily at it.

"No visual on the perp," Another officer commented as he got a little closer.

"Keep your eyes peeled," the first officer snapped, "he's around here somewhere."

"Behind you!" The Joker shouted from the edge of the alley, where the cops had entered a moment before. Shots were fired instantly and the cops dropped dead one after another in the alley, rain pelting them with just as much prejudice as the men who owned the car previously.

…

The rain ceased not long after the brawl was ended. The statistics were being totaled, and so far over 40 individuals were killed, another 50 were injured in some way, and property damages, both public and private, totaled almost $40,000. The cops who were fortunate enough to escape intact were breathing easier.

Still, there were a few unaccounted for factors, several missing people, conflicting reports and stories on the eruption of the battle, et cetera. Officers Bullock and Montoya were walking down the street, searching for stray weapons or injured persons who may have fled from the warzone. When they turned into the alley, Montoya couldn't hold back the vomit.

Several police officers, cut, mangled, shot, and bludgeoned to death. Blood used in the place of spray paint, coated on the walls in a pattern of criminal disorder. The only words that had been spelled out sent a message that made them quiver.

 _A city marred in corruption and sin,_  
 _A home void of a loving heart within,_  
 _The den that makes me frown,_  
 _Gotham is forever The Joker's town,_  
 _Now I'll turn it all upside down!_

Stuck onto the wall, lathered with the organic paint and stained with the smell of death, was another playing card, identical to the first one in every way, and just like the first, devoid of the same crucial information that most men left behind at a crime scene.

Bullock pulled out his radio and let the word slip, "Commissioner...we've got a new problem. You better come down here and check it out yourself."

From atop the roof of the building that bore his message, The Joker chuckled, very quietly at first, as though afraid to ruin the pristine moment. Gradually, though, it became louder. The cops below could not hear it, but The Joker's glee came to fruition as the killer walked off, smiling the biggest red smile he could ever recall himself bearing.

He smiled on, as the moon laughed at him, but he laughed back. He'd always get the last laugh, and it was a relief to know that he who laughs last, laughs alone.

…

The news anchor's expression shifted from a content happiness, to a stern sorrow, "In other news, the new criminal killer of Gotham city, according to police the self-proclaimed 'Joker' has struck again. We take you live to the abandoned amusement fair outside of Gotham for more, where Vicki Vale has come across an atrocious discovery; but be warned, these images are not for the faint of heart. Vickie?"

The image switched to a blonde woman, bundling herself up in a large, rather expensive coat as the wind blew her hair back and chilled her hands while she held the microphone to her lips.

"That's right, authorities were directed here after an anonymous tip claimed that a strange and deadly gas was leaking. The investigation led to the first finding of the Joker's hideout."

Images of broken down attractions and rides well past working order flashed on screen. Trash was littered all around and the buildings and tents were barely standing in some cases. A few areas were tagged with spray paint, and from within one of the hall of mirrors came several paramedics.

Inside the hall, all of the trick mirrors had been removed, and blood stained curtains were put up in their place. Various tools, used surgically whether or not that was their original purpose, were scattered on the floor. Stains from blood and innards, as well as chemical residues, were also askew on the wooden floor. Most notably, several corpses were lying coldly on the floor, all having died with forced glasgow smiles.

"As you can see," she narrated, "the discovery was more than gruesome. Authorities report that the bodies are at least a day old, some even older, and in total, there are 11 missing persons confirmed to be dead here."

The feed cut back to Vicki's face, more troubled now than when she began, "further searches of the park have revealed no new leads on the Joker's whereabouts, and as police have stated, he seems able to somehow erase the evidence of his existence. Astounding as it is-"

An explosion of green gas interrupted her and cries of panic and pain erupted. A ravenous laughter was played by remote on the hardly functional speakers. Vale crouched down and covered her head, and she looked on the verge of crying, but she did not abandon her post.

"An explosion has just rocked the entire park and cries of distress are coming from the distance. I can't say what exactly has happened, but we need immediate relief here in the park. Is this another of Joker's schemes? How-"

The television shut off. A rushed man ran down the hall and shouted out in the large manor, "Alfred! Change in plans! I'm going out tonight!"

A secret panel opened in the wall and Bruce Wayne disappeared into it as the echoes of the Joker's sick laughter rang through his mind.


End file.
